


Mirror, Mirror

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Elevator Sex, M/M, Mirrors, PWP, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek mashes his hand into the emergency stop button on the elevator panel the moment they are between floors, a sub-vocal growl in his throat the second before he turns to Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BFive0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFive0/gifts).



 

* * *

 

            Derek mashes his hand into the emergency stop button on the elevator panel the moment they are between floors, a sub-vocal growl in his throat the second before he turns to Stiles. The desire to wipe the subtle smirk from the guy’s face is surpassed only by his desire to sink into the scent of arousal pouring off of him. Stiles seems to expect the way that Derek crowds into his space, hungrily seeking the heat of his lips, fingers pressing into the sides of his hips as he walks them to the rear of the elevator. Stiles hums and tips his head to break the kiss when his back hits the wall.

            “Derek,” he murmurs, voice scratchy and thick. “We’re going to get caught.”

            They won’t, Derek knows. He doesn’t bother saying so; Stiles only ever _plays_ at concern over breaking human rules like pressing the stop button. They’ve broken too many rules too many times for his protest to be real, even if it didn’t sound like encouragement anyway, even if Stiles’ hands were not already smoothing up under the hem of his shirt to get at skin. So Derek just slurs a noise of agreement against Stiles’ skin and noses up under his jaw as his hands slide over the line of his hips because there is only one button that concerns Derek and it is the one above Stiles’ fly.

            A certain sense of satisfaction settles low in Derek’s gut when Stiles tilts his head to give him better access to his collarbone and he wastes no time setting blunt teeth to the flesh, sucking in a mark that won’t fade for days. He stops when he has drawn a ragged noise from Stiles, dragging his tongue over the mark, soothing. Stiles says something he doesn’t hear past the rush of his thrumming heartbeat in his ears. It doesn’t matter.

            The haze of desire retreats a little when Stiles rubs his cheek along Derek’s, and he catches the tail end of his murmuring. “Mirrors, Derek.”

            He pulls back enough to look Stiles in the eyes, to follow the small nod he gives to something behind Derek. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees them; floor to ceiling mirrors set into the doors of the elevator, trimmed with wood to match the rest of the inside. Fancy and completely unnecessary, but not a cause for stopping, not when Stiles is here before him, wanting and pliant and already smelling like sex.

            Then Stiles’ breath is hot on his ear, and he loses the thread of irritation to the words _you could see everything_ and the full body shudder that courses through him. The idea floods his mind, turning all of his thoughts into a mash of _fuck yes see everything want need._ The growl isn’t sub-vocal anymore, rumbling up from the deep of his chest as he turns back to the smirking human.

            Stiles’ laugh is rich as his hands slide up along Derek’s jaw, pulling him into another kiss and Derek knows all of his thoughts showed on his face but he doesn’t care at all if it means he gets to hear him laugh like that.

            He asks, against the pulse in Stiles' throat, what he thinks they are going to do. He presses Stiles against the back wall, fingers flaring over his ribs, and asks him _like this_? He can feel the idea take root in the way Stiles' breath stutters, can tell the moment his body reacts by the heady scent that blossoms.

            But Derek is a werewolf and as much as he knows Stiles still sometimes thinks in terms of human strength, Derek doesn't have to. Stiles may think of Derek lifting him up, of the way he could wrap his legs around Derek, the way the wall behind him would be their support.

            Derek doesn't need the wall.

           He doesn't have to say it, isn't sure he would have the words anyway so he just hauls Stiles easily away from the wall. Before Stiles can protest, Derek slips around him, draws him closer until his shoulders touch Derek's chest and Stiles _gets it_. The way he melts into Derek, fingers chasing down Derek's arms as he wraps them around Stiles is intoxicating.

            Stiles was right.

            The mirrors are awesome.

            Derek goes a little dizzy watching Stiles watch him in the reflective surface, hooded eyes tracking as Derek flicks open the button, slides the zipper down slow enough to elicit a groan that vibrates through both of them.

            "You want to watch?" Derek asks, rubbing his palm over the line of Stiles dick where it strains for release. "We could. Just like this."

            He knows how difficult it is for Stiles to think while his hands are on him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't want to stop. Stiles huffs at him for even asking and Derek can almost hear the _get on with it_ in the noise. "Not while wearing this many clothes," Stiles counters, giving a little wiggle of his hips that grinds his ass back and reminds Derek of just how trapped he still is.

            "So?" Derek asks instead of giving in, just to hear the exasperated noise Stiles makes, just to feel him dig his nails into Derek's wrist, frustrated.

            He grins and lets Stiles help, smoothes palms down Stiles' bare hips, jeans and briefs bunching up as they are shoved down, until he's got them around one ankle. They cannot strip entirely for this, because someone is bound to notice the car is not working even if there's no alarm, but it's enough for the moment. Without the barrier, the synthetic scent of lube is nearly overwhelming, confirming Derek's suspicions.

            Stiles _planned_ this. He planned this, had shown up to fetch Derek already _prepared_ , the scent of Derek's expensive-as-hell, oil-based lubricant - because Derek is a picky little shit when he bottoms - clinging to him, an accent to the desire lighting his eyes. It's a _challenge_ , like Stiles is always a challenge, always trying to goad Derek into action, and Derek has every intention of answering this time.

            He starts by turning Stiles around again and wiping that smug smile off his face. There's no way he can play innocent anymore, not when Derek can press his fingers inside of him, slippery and slow and feel Stiles clench around him. Not when all Derek can wonder is if his bed is going to smell like Stiles when he gets home, if it's going to reek of the time it took to finger himself open and slick on the chance that Derek would take the blatant invitation.

            "Couldn't even wait?" he murmurs, curling two fingers inside and chasing the whimper that escapes Stiles with a kiss. It's not enough and they both know it.

            "Fuck," Stiles breathes against his lips, pushing back against his fingers, seeking pressure, friction, anything other than the slow teasing. "Yes, couldn't wait. Are we going to do this or what?"

            Derek chuckles because sometimes Stiles is a bossy little shit and sometimes Derek really likes it. Times like when they are locked in an elevator with mirrors enough that Derek can watch his fingers sinking into Stiles, can feel him clench and writhe, feel the heat of his breath on the crook of his neck as Stiles impatiently turns his attention to Derek's pants, long fingers working at getting them undone.

            He succeeds, though only god knows how with just one hand, the other going down to stroke wantonly over the very telling bulge behind the zipper. Derek doesn't bother attempting to suppress the low, throaty groan at the feeling of freedom as the metal teeth tick down. The sound causes Stiles' knees to wobble a little as he works faster to get Derek's pants around his ankles and his own hands wrapped around Derek's cock.

            A part of Derek wants to turn Stiles around to face the mirrors again, haul him up and hold him steady, watch him watching their reflections, watching himself as Derek fucks him. Another part of him can feel the tremble in Stiles' touches and knows that Stiles is too impatient right now.

            It's no surprise at all to Derek when Stiles bends just a little, wriggling free of Derek's fingers at last, and all but hops into Derek's arms. He trusts Derek to catch him, knows Derek can bear his weight even when taken by surprise. Derek does not disappoint, catching Stiles around his thighs as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck and his legs around Derek’s waist.

            With a grin worthy of a pleased Cheshire cat, Stiles levers himself up in Derek's shoulders enough that Derek can shift, can hold Stiles with just one arm and use his free hand to guide them. A broken, needy noise is wrung from Stiles when Derek holds them still, with Stiles resting poised to sink down and three seconds of coherent thought between them.

            "You can't see," he manages.

            Stiles groans in frustration and Derek can feel his eyeroll even if he can't see it. "I swear to god, I will get off this ride if you don't hurry up."

            That's all the warning Derek gets before Stiles is bearing down, letting his weight fall to Derek's grip, taking Derek in just slow enough, just fast enough that they both gasp. Stiles clutches at his shoulders and as Derek leans back against the wall because he _can_ support their weight but _that_ feels just this side of too good and he knows Stiles has to adjust anyway. Even with the preparation, he knows the sudden stretch must still burn a little.

            They stay like that for a moment, just wrapped up in each other, until Derek lifts his head and tips it back to thunk against the wall as well, baring his throat to Stiles who wastes no time leaving a mark all his own, knowing that Derek won't let it heal until later. He can feel Derek's soft laugh rumble under his lips and tongue and when Derek asks how long Stiles has been planning this Stiles just bites down and uses the involuntary flex of Derek's hips in response to start moving.

            Derek is more than ready for it. He knows there will be soft handprint bruises on Stiles' thighs where Derek helps lift him, gripping to bring him back down harder, deeper in each thrust. He also knows Stiles doesn't mind, nor will he comment when later tonight Derek falls asleep wrapped around him, leeching away the ache.

            For now Stiles just rests his forearms on Derek's shoulders for leverage and threads his fingers into Derek's hair as they move, scratching at his scalp. If he pulls a little roughly, he's only rewarded with Derek giving him access to give all the marks he wants to leave and wishes would stay past morning.

            When they are close, when Derek can feel coil of release, when he can feel Stiles tensing for it, he remembers the mirrors. He has enough time to hook his chin over Stiles’ shoulder, catch a glimpse of them in the mirror. It is better than he had expected, being able to see the connection, see the slide and pull of flesh on flesh.

            He is just this side of gone when he shifts to be able to touch, to rub a curious finger over Stiles’ stretched rim, right where they meet, watching in the mirrors. Derek isn’t prepared for the way Stiles’ whole body seizes taut, or the thick, startled shout he gives at the unexpected contact. Everything crashes together the moment Stiles starts shaking and shuddering in his arms and all around him. He’s thankful he leaned against the wall as all of his strength leaves him in the moment, washed out in favor of pleasure and it is all he can do to just to hold on to Stiles.

            When the world begins to filter back, the space between them is sticky and damp and hot and there is a voice on the intercom asking if there’s anyone in the car. Slowly, Derek shifts to let Stiles unwind himself from around him and slide to the ground so he can answer. The whole car reeks of sex and Derek can’t tell if the flush on Stiles’ skin is from embarrassment or from exertion, but fuck if it isn’t attractive when coupled with the smirk hovering on his lips.

            “Yes,” Derek answers the intercom, voice so thick and low he suspects it will be obvious what they’ve done even if his hair wasn’t the dictionary definition of sex hair, even if they weren’t both a mess. “We’re here. I think we pressed the wrong button.”

            Stiles snorts and mumbles: “Pressed all the right buttons, if you ask me” and Derek is glad he released the intercom button. Stiles pokes his tongue out at him as he rummages in the back pocket of his jeans. Derek rolls his eyes when Stiles produces a package of wetnaps.

            “Really, Stiles?” he asks.

            “Always be prepared,” Stiles tells him, smiling slyly.

            Derek rolls his eyes, but he accepts some of them. “I don’t think this is what the boyscouts had in mind when they coined that phrase,” he says dryly. Then he reaches over and swipes the entire rest of the package from Stiles’ slack grip even though Stiles isn't quite finished.

            “Hey!” Stiles protests, glaring. It’s difficult for Derek to take him seriously with his pants still around one ankle and his ridiculous hair sticking up at odd angles. “Give them back.”

            Both of Derek’s eyebrows rise at the demand. “I assume you’re going to make me explain this,” he said, motioning to the car around them, knowing even Stiles’ human nose could pick up on the overpowering scent of sex. Stiles’ smile confirms his guess, and so he pockets the rest of the package with a smirk. “So you can clean up at my place.”

            Despite that they aren't very far from the loft, Stiles’ eyes narrow. “The whole pack is going to be there, Derek,” he grits out. “They all have super noses.”

            “Yep,” Derek agrees, pulling up his pants and buttoning them. He leers a little at Stiles, who gives him a put-out yet tolerant glare, and Derek knows he planned that, too, because Stiles is usually much faster at cleaning up. He knows the other wolves can smell Derek on him, and he likes it. Derek likes it, too, though he rarely admits it. “You can explain to them after I explain to security.”

            When Stiles grumbles, yanking up his own pants, Derek steps into his space, crowding him into the corner as the elevator begins to move. He nuzzles close, mouthing along Stiles’ jaw until their lips meet. Stiles melts into him, hands curled in the damp fabric of his shirt as they kiss. When they part, Derek counts the dings of the floors as they pass, letting his forehead rest against Stiles’ until the very last moment.

            The second before the doors ding for the final floor, Derek pulls back and presses a quick kiss to Stiles’ forehead. This time, he is sure the flush on Stiles’ cheeks is because of him, and he smiles.

 


End file.
